


Convalescence

by rosekay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-24
Updated: 2007-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sappy missing scene from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/283711">The Taste of Apples</a>. Dean is sick and Sam is patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Convalescence

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2007

On Tuesday, Dean wakes up, tries to swallow, and thinks, _fuck_. He manages to drag himself out of bed, where the floor is unfeelingly cold, skipping the bathroom to head straight for the kitchen. Sam sort of raises his eyebrows at him in greeting over the folds of the local paper. There's a cup of coffee at his elbow and half a grapefruit winking in the sunlight right in front of him, spoon resting neatly in the hollow of an eaten quarter. Dean wants to huff at him in disgust, but he's already aching all over, and it's really not worth the effort. Bacon, he thinks, bacon makes everything better. Maybe he can launch some at Sam's disgustingly cheerful _humming_ face for a little morning entertainment.

Fifteen minutes later, when he's puking said bacon and what feels like half his internal organs into his brother's lap, Sam at least looks significantly less cheerful. Dean manages to heave his head up, flushed and miserable and a little out of breath. He's finally stopped gagging, but it feels like he's got a marathon and a war behind him, head aching from trying to push everything out. The giant worried wrinkle in Sam's forehead threatens to swallow him whole.

It's not like he's never worked sick or injured before. He routinely bites through blisters, tears his stitches, makes himself focus through concussions, but this cold - or whatever the hell it is - is a _bitch._ It can't decide whether Dean's stomach, throat or head deserves more abuse, so as result, he ends up half delirious on the couch, unable to keep anything down or really, move, without passing out, choking or puking. Time passes in shimmery waves of cold medicine, bouts of shivering that make him feel about five years old. He has a dim impression of Sam leaning over him, blurry indistinct face, hand on his forehead like June fucking Cleaver, while Dean tries, and fails to muster up a fuck off, we're not actually married, you big frickin girl. They always settled for less before when they were sick, motel rooms and temporary rentals with cockroaches skittering across the walls, Dad gone for days at a time, so there's no reason he can't beat a stupid, pussy cold with a _house_ and nothing clawed, dead or dripping ectoplasm in his immediate future. Sam, who was always rational but not much of a natural caretaker, seems to have picked up mother henning in college, hovering, always _asking_ things, usually retarded questions, that forehead wrinkle having resolutely taken up full time residence. _How are you feeling? What about now? More soup?_ It's nothing less than a goddamn humiliation for the both of them.

When Dean tells him as much, only slurring his words a little bit, and blinking into the dim light, Sam just laughs and _pats him on the head_ , fingers carding idly through his sweaty hair.

The third day of his incapacitation, he wakes up from a mess of tangled, anxious dreams he can't remember except in broad strokes of fuchsia worry and rippling unhappiness, fucked up enough that every motion feels like he's dragging cement. His head weighs five times more than it should, limbs barely there. He's starving and nauseated at the same time, bone deep exhaustion seated on his eyelids, everything aching so much it takes him way too long to realize his blurry vision is rooted in the fact that he's blinking _tears_ away, teeth clenched pointlessly, trying to parse out whatever pussy thing Sam's got coming out of his mouth. He wants to rail, punch something, fuck something, do _anything_ other than lie in bed, useless, unable to focus, every muscle he's ever depended on cheerfully giving him the finger.

Except Sam isn't saying anything, just quietly thumbs the salt from the corners of his eyes, hand slipping beneath the blanket to skitter down Dean's spine, fingers gently working themselves into sore skin, the warmth bizarrely settling his stomach. He's parched suddenly, working his throat to get the message out, but Sam's already got the cup to his cracked lips, that steady, amazing motion on his back a sweet and constant hum on Dean's rattled nerves.

He swallows the warm tea - drinking goddamn tea, he'll never live this down - with only a little difficulty. It's not that anything hurts less, but it's easier to close his eyes, letting the liquid settle, his muscles relax, and think, _this isn't so bad._


End file.
